


i want to be young (it's time leave, to turn to dust)

by devereauxing



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:29:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26247964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devereauxing/pseuds/devereauxing
Summary: "Oh."Roger's head shot up."It's you," said the alpha from the moors, stood in the doorway and staring at him.
Relationships: John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	i want to be young (it's time leave, to turn to dust)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkingismylife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingismylife/gifts).



> happy birthday, caro.

It was raining outside again, as it was wont to do in the early months. The servants had been all abuzz about the possibility of snow ruining the happy prospect of the scullery maids wedding to the young blacksmith’s boy, William, but there was no sign of soft flakes to be seen. Only the dull drumbeat of heavy droplets smacking down on compact mud, rendering the oft picturesque landscape a blur of brown and green-that-wished-to-be-brown. 

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single alpha in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of an omega!” 

Roger collapsed back from the window ledge and, picking up the ugliest of his embroidery creations, chucked it at Freddie’s head. Freddie yelped as the embroidery hoop met the bridge of his nose with the unerring accuracy that came from plenty of practice. “Do shut up, will you? I hear enough of that codswallop from Mother, I don’t need to be hearing it from your fat gob too.” 

“Fat?” Freddie shrieked, the embroidery hoop arching back through the air. Expecting it, Roger ducked. 

The hoop, made of heavy ivory that their uncle had brought them back from London, went high — for Freddie had little interest in the games of quoits during the summer months, usually leaving Roger to play against one of the maids or if he were exceedingly lucky, Papa — hit the window which promptly smashed. 

Freddie paused, colour high on his cheeks, as he looked between the damage the hoop had wrought and Roger, who had now leaped to his feet in an attempt to distance himself from the inevitable scolding that was sure to follow. 

“ _Fat?_ ” Freddie shrieked once more, seemingly deciding that this slight was of higher import than marginal property damage. “It’s not I that had to have my breeches let out again!” 

“Shush!” Roger hushed him, waving his hands. “Mother will hear you. Tilly let them out in secret, Freddie. I told you in confidence.” 

“It’s not likely to be a secret any longer if you keep eating all of those cold vegetables at dinner! They upset the constitution and induce bloating, did you know? Joseph was telling me all about it at the linen store the other day,” he gave Roger a stern look, hands on his hips. “They say overconsumption is dangerous.” 

Roger huffed. “I do plenty more dangerous things than eat too much cabbage, Freddie.” 

“Like—” said Freddie as from behind him came the exclamation: 

“Like destroy my house!” 

Immediately Freddie’s hands fell from his hips to clasp demurely about his front as he turned to face the doorway which led into the foyer where Mother stood, clutching at the lace trim that lay on her chest from the muslin ‘kerchief tied properly about her neck to protect her modesty. 

Roger, with his now slightly damp hair and damper day coat, didn’t bother with attempting to mend his posture. There was little point. 

“Oh! I cannot believe you would do this! And when you know we’re to have guests, as well,” Mother flapped her hands about her face, cheeks turning the alarming shade of puce that they tended to assume just as she was about to call for her — “My salts! Timothy — _Timothy!_ — my salts, I need them.” 

Roger rolled his eyes at Freddie. 

“You’re terrible,” Freddie hissed at him, scurrying to the display cabinet to pluck up one of the many purses of smelling salts that were secreted around the house for occasions such as these as Mother collapsed onto their father’s high back chair. 

“She’s fine.” 

Timothy came dashing through the door, smelling salts held high. 

“You’re too late now, boy!” Mother snapped, waving her off. Freddie held his stash of salts under her nose. “I could have fallen and cracked my very head open if Freddie dearest hadn’t jumped to my rescue, nigh on sprinted to the dresser, he did!” 

Timothy mumbled his apologies. 

“Not that he should have had to,” Mother continued, snatching the slats from Freddie and standing once more. As always, her fainting spell disappeared in much the same way it had arrived: all at once and with very little grace. “We do hire servants to serve, you understand? An omega of our station should not be forced to stress themselves in such an improper manner! It could have all sorts of effects on his nerve or his constitution.” 

Roger bit his lip and refrained from asking if she herself had partaken in any rigorous exercise in her youth. Given her lack of success over the Season’s before she married their father — and the resultant lack of promised heirs which had made such a young, if unpopular, wife so enticing — Roger could only presume the answer was a decided no. 

He had long suspected that her frail constitution was more the consequence of an utter lack of preparation for the realities of married life and the unsavoury competition involved in securing it. A mother’s eye is ever turned blind, and Mrs. Flouton — who had, in contradiction to her daughter, been decidedly aghast at the possibility of children not of her blood naming her as Grandmother — had been overly demonstrative, during her many visits, the pedestal upon which her only daughter sat by her reckoning. 

From his understanding Mother — and how he despised to call her that when she had earned no right to adorn herself the honorific; she had not laboured, nor loved, nor lost last breath in the birthing chamber — had entered into Society as if she were the rarest of jewels, the prize of ignorance borne from a small country estate, helped only to Court by her mother’s connections made some decades before. And once in Society had been shocked to discover that the world had continued to turn since the years her mother had dazzled her way into a landed alpha’s heart despite her poor recommendation, the result of an uncle’s appalling gambling habit which had later seen him sent to the colonies over an illegal duel in a back alley, and that an alpha was in desire of something perhaps a little more than a sweet scent and a bared neck if the face could not set even a rowing boat to sail. 

No, it had been four long Season’s before their father had been dubiously charmed. The fainting spells, Roger was convinced, were a tactic she had relied on to use an alpha’s need to comfort and provide against them and now didn't know how to give the habit up. 

He could respect it, perhaps, if he respected her. 

“We do not,” Mother prattled on lecturing poor Timothy. “Want the only suitable young omega in this house turning wild like the other one!” She sniffed at her salts once more, and Timothy shuffled uncomfortably in place. “Wandering about the moors in all weathers, trampling mud and all sorts over my rugs with no mind to how I’ve just had them cleaned.” 

“Roggie did apologise to Mrs. Poole about the rug, Mother,” Freddie cajoled, laying a cautious hand on her arm as he coached her back into her seat. 

“Oh,” Mother sighed, patting Freddie’s hand softly. She sniffled: “But not a single apology to me. No one ever thinks of how I suffer, do they?” 

Freddie jerked his head towards her. 

Roger stepped forward and attempted to paste an earnest expression about his face. 

“I am terribly sorry about the rug, Mother. Mrs. Poole scrubbed it brand new again, I swear.” 

Mother looked up, her beady eyes darting over him to catalogue the myriad of imperfections he would no doubt later be informed of. “And now,” she said, her face crumpling inwards like a yorkshire pudding gone wrong. “You have smashed a window, blemishing this here which is the house your ancestors provided us with. The house your father toils day and night to maintain.” 

Timothy, stood by the door, slipped out to continue his work, the unnecessary salts still in hand. 

“T’wasn’t Roger, Mother,” Freddie said softly, removing his hand from her arm and turning a guilty look to his feet as they scuffed a guilty tune against the carpet. 

Mother paused, taking in the picture that Freddie made. She darted a look over at Roger who attempted to portray the innocence with which he knew, in this case, he was imbued. Her mouth opened, most likely to start her berating anew— 

“We are to have guests?” Roger interrupted, settling his hands into the appropriate demure position. 

Freddie shot him a grateful look, straightening up and scurrying over to stand next to him once more as Mother took up his proffered distraction. 

“Well, not any longer,” she sighed, making to stand. She turned her face from them, “I cannot look at you and the damage you have wrought, my poor heart will not stand for it. Not today.” 

Despite her protestation not to look at either of them, she then did so. “How you are to induce Mr. Deacon to propose marriage, I do not know. But by the grace of God he shall not take offence at our changing the date of our dinner at such late and disgraceful notice.” 

“We’re very sorry, Mother,” Freddie murmured, elbowing Roger once, twice, thrice until he offered up his own apologies also with panic clagging in his throat. 

She sniffed and strode from the room, calling all the way for the attendance of Mrs. Poole. 

“Mr. Deacon?” Freddie wondered, turning to Roger with wide eyes. 

Roger swallowed heavily and grabbed at his brother’s hand desperately: “Marriage.” 

* 

He took in a deep breath. 

He took in a deep breath and he imagined the air rushing through his body, sweeping away the cobwebs that lingered in the absence of a restful night. He held his lungs full until pinpricks of light sparked in his eyes, outshining the weak Spring sun as it rose steadily against the peaks. 

In the dark months such as these he had little trouble believing that the stars and the sun were the same. Often it felt the stars shone brighter and offered more guidance in their nightly meditations than the sun; the sun limped across the sky, dragging its heels as if it had any right to act as if an injustice had been cast upon it. 

Roger felt no mercy for celestial beings. Mercy was the province of those with something to barter. 

He had his own two hands and a designation that sat heavy about his neck, clinking with every step he took. Chains only sold with the body still in place. 

He breathed out. 

He’d fled the house as soon as the first rays of light had appeared on the horizon, dust motes swirling about his bed like a call to arms. The rain had cleared in the night and the heaths were breathing with him, soaking in the benediction offered by the heavens and planning for the fruitful future. 

Roger was planning too. 

Freddie and he had curled together like children anew in the night, fingers entwined as they held tight onto one another under the sheets; whispers had flowed between them, the future hanging over them like an execution sword. The sheets were clean, a stark white that only came from the scullery maids labouring for hours to return to them that masquerade of purity which was sullied month after month. 

The jawline of his brother had held steady, the delicate jut of bone showing through fragile skin and screaming into their shelter that he was ready, he would do as he was meant. 

“No,” Roger uttered, and the wind carried it. 

The wind carried it and buried it deep, buried it like the rain. 

Freddie may have been the eldest, may have carried that mantle like a breastplate into war, but Roger knew he was not made for this. Freddie was made of kindness and a shy disposition which lent to its bearer a quiet strength of endurance. He would take and take, bend and bend, and all the while he would try to show mercy. 

Roger was not made for mercy. 

Roger was the younger son, the younger omega. He had been born in the squall of death and blood; his first breath had been stolen from his mother, snatched while she laboured. His very life had been a desperate bargain with the creator — a bargain in which each party came from lesser. 

Freddie may have been the eldest, but Freddie was also still a believer. Freddie believed that there was someone out there who could love him, and love him well, regardless of the reduced circumstance he came from. Their dowry may be little, but Freddie believed in something beyond their economic straits. 

Freddie may have been the eldest, but Roger was pragmatic for all of his many faults. 

Or perhaps that was, at the root of it all, his ultimate fault. 

Roger would barter his chains, but he was aware that they were chains. Viscerally, he knew. He knew, and he hated. He hated and he chafed in a way that Freddie could not, because Freddie still believed in some system of fairness that would result in eventual happiness for himself and those he cared for. 

Freddie was aware of his chains and awaited a key. 

Roger was aware of his chains and awaited an axe. 

“Oh.” 

Roger whirled around from his contemplation of the landscape. There was a man — a man he didn’t know. 

“I apologise,” the man, the _alpha_ , said. “I did not mean to disturb.” 

They stared at one another, both unsure as to what the appropriate response to the situation they found themselves in was. 

“Is your escort far?” the alpha asked, eyes flickering to the bared skin of Roger’s neck. 

He fought the urge to cover his unmarked skin as if in doing so he could protect it from blemish if the alpha decided to take advantage of the circumstances. His fingers twitched and he forced himself to clasp his hands in front of himself as would be expected, straightening his posture to mark his station also. 

“I am unescorted,” he said loftily, meeting the alpha’s gaze head-on. “For I had no expectation of danger on the moors,” a beat. He cocked his head and noted the alpha’s continued polite eye contact, the refusal to give in to instinct again. “Have you come across some beast I would require protection from?” 

The alpha’s eyes widened, his scent spiking. Roger’s lip curled and he held his breath, he’d never been all that fond of the heaviness that characterised most alpha’s scents. 

He supposed it was likely due to his own father’s scent, which carried itself lighter than any other he had ever encountered. Freddie told him that it hadn’t always been so, that the perfume of lilies had not always shrouded Papa, but Roger could not remember anything else. He had grown to maturity blanketed in the soft comfort of sweet and fragrant affection; the dense scent of other alpha’s had never been appealing to him in the way the poets whispered it should. 

“No,” the alpha hurried to say, stepping back as if the ten yards already between them were not a safe enough distance. 

Although, Roger considered, given that they were in the absence of witnesses, any distance was not safe enough for the security of his reputation. He had never paid much mind to his reputation before, when he had clung to childhood like a babe to the breast. 

That was now over. 

“I did not mean to intrude on your…” the alpha trailed off. 

“My walk,” Roger finished for him, beginning his descent from the small hill he had climbed earlier. The alpha stumbled backward. 

“Yes.” 

For every step Roger walked forward, the alpha took a step backward. 

“I’m afraid I shall have to pass you at some point,” Roger quipped, watching the man stumble on a rock. “Or else you will arrive at my home ten paces before I do.” 

“Oh.” 

The laugh bubbled in Roger’s through before he could wrestle it down, “Your virtue is quite safe with me, I promise.” 

Lavender, sweet and fragrant, drifted faintly in the wind. 

The alpha stood still. Roger passed him and held his breath. Ten paces between them, and he exhaled. 

“The view of the peaks during the sunrise is quite beautiful,” he said softly, nodding to the spot where he had stood before. “If you can bear to face the chill of the earliest hours, just as the light begins to show, you should be able to make it from the village just in time.” 

“I’m not staying in the—” the alpha had turned to face him after he’d walked beyond him, was watching him carefully. As if he were something dangerous. “I wouldn’t want to intrude upon your walk again.” 

“You won’t.” 

It was time to say goodbye to childish things. 

* 

The house had just begun to wake up by the time he snuck back up the staircase. Tilly had helped him out of his walking boots, the disappointment of Mrs. Poole when presented with the mud-stained rug from last week had left a lingering impression and he had little desire to create more work for the staff than necessary. 

Freddie had still been asleep and so he had crawled back into bed with him, burying his nose in the soft crook of his brother’s neck so that his lungs filled anew with honeysuckle. 

The mud that caked the bottom of his trousers smeared the pristine sheets and Roger thought that was right in a way that the white hadn’t been. 

Here, in Freddie’s embrace, the air warm from their shared breaths, was as close he’d ever felt to divinity. For all of their differences, when they were pressed together close like this — skin to skin and heartbeat to heartbeat, the same blood coursing through their veins binding them like the vine to the stake — he felt like they were one being. Their mother lived in the rush of their pulses, the reflection of the other in the glint of their eyes; they had grown first strong in her, and then strong together. 

They had grown together in this house. They had played in the garden back when youth had been an eternal promise rather than a ghost to be chased, laughing until their ribs were sore and loving freely with chubby cheeks aching under the weight of happy days they hadn’t known were running out. 

Childhood was ephemeral; as soon as you became aware of it, it ended. It was cruel that the only way to cherish innocence was to lose it. 

Under his lips vibrations spread like little earthquakes: “Roggie?” 

Roger buried himself deeper. 

“You smell like the heath,” Freddie murmured, voice soft as the skin Roger was trying to burrow his way into. “Is the lavender growing already?” 

If he closed his eyes tighter perhaps the world would leave them be. The sun might set again and leave them in suspended night, resting with one another while the moon watched over them to keep them safe from the unending march of time that gave little care to those who suffered under its rule. 

* 

Mother had spent the vast majority of the afternoon lecturing Freddie, and to a lesser extent himself, on how they were to comport themselves at dinner. Freddie had listened as he was expected to, only the clammy palm that Roger held clutched in his own giving away his anxiety. 

Once she had swept from the room to give her orders to the staff -- likely unnecessarily -- Roger had swept Freddie up into a hug and pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

"It'll be alright, Freds," he'd whispered, still clasping Freddie's hand in his own with no intention of letting go until he had to. "It's going to be fine, just you see." 

Freddie had stared at him blankly for a long moment once he'd stepped back before a vacant smile had made its way onto his face. Roger hated it. It was the smile Mother had spent months teaching him through insistent complaints any and every time she caught him smiling as he ought to. Her campaign against his natural smile had ramped up in the weeks before his trip to town three years prior, a sad sigh accompanying her almost-kind explanations that she didn't want Society in town to see him in a bad light. 

"Of course it will be alright, Roger," Freddie told him, extracting his hand, at last, to pat him tenderly on the cheek. "Why wouldn't it be?" 

He'd watched him leave the living room, his palm stinging. 

The remaining hours before dinner had been consumed wholly by the pandemonium that characterised the act of preparing for company multiplied by a thousand. Roger had been shoved into the chair in front of his vanity cabinet by the no-nonsense hands of Mrs. Poole and told to _behave, now, for little Lillian. You know she's terrified of you, I don't want to hear no crying and caterwauling, y'hear me?_

Lillian wasn't so terrified of him as she was of his father, and Roger insisted that it was none of his own fault. On her first day at the manor, some four months or so ago now, he had been caught in a freak storm during his daily sojourn across the moors. He had been determined to enjoy the last few weeks before the snowfall came to its greatest extent, and perhaps should have left once the clouds had rumbled overhead. Nonetheless, by the time he had made it home he'd managed to catch quite the chill which had left him bedbound for almost a week. 

Lillian had been his nursemaid and a relatively good one at that until she had accidentally poisoned him with a spoonful of honey in his tea to help with his sore throat. 

Papa had been incandescent with rage over the incident, despite Roger's speedy recovery, and had threatened to fire her if she so much as sneezed in Roger's general direction. 

Thus: Lillian's all-consuming terror when it came to being confined to the same room with him. 

He had attempted to apologise to her for the incident, for if he had known of her ignorance to his allergy he would surely have forewarned her, but she was a quiet, shy little slip of a girl who had been reduced almost to tears in his clumsy attempts. So he had instead resolved to try and make her duties easier by avoiding her where possible — he did not wish to see her fired if she happened to prick his skin while tailoring his shirts. Her mother was of the sickly persuasion and had been remarkably unlucky in her births; while their father lamented his two omegas, Mrs. Caulfield had produced seven. 

"If you wouldn't mind, sir," Lillian hadn't looked up from the flooring of his room since she had stepped in. He was showing remarkable restraint in not teasing her over it, he thought. "Your mother has asked that I fix your hair for dinner now." 

Which was how Roger found himself some hour later staring at his reflection with some discomfort. 

Lillian had woven dried sprigs of lavender into his hair, with enough pins to withstand a hurricane. She had scraped at his scalp hard enough to draw blood, it had seemed, but Roger had kept his mouth shut for fear of Mrs. Poole. The updo was something similar to one he'd seen in one of the magazines Mother sometimes had delivered to her from town, which meant that it was one or two seasons out of style, but it looked sophisticated enough that Roger felt tremendously uncomfortable in it. Lillian had also been in charge of his makeup, which was something he wore but rarely and always at the insistence of Mother. She had layered pink powder of his cheekbones until they appeared rosy and full, plump almost. 

He looked young and fertile. Which was, he supposed, rather the point. 

Freddie, of course, outshone him completely. 

"Well?" Freddie had asked, shyly straightening his jacket collar. "What do you think?" 

Freddie had their mother's pearls pinned in his hair, contrasting like stars in the night sky. While Roger had been made rosy, Freddie had been made ethereal. 

Roger had his work cut out for him, that much was clear. 

"You look gorgeous, as always," Roger had answered honestly, and Freddie beamed. Their father had nearly cried at the sight of them when he had come to collect them to wait in the foyer. 

Mother had clucked and worried at the two of them, dismissing Roger as a lost cause almost immediately as the stray piece of hair she tried to tuck back into one of his pins escaped its confines once more mere seconds later, concerning herself mostly with Freddie. Tilly had truly outdone herself, and Roger found himself wishing that perhaps she could have done her job slightly less well. 

No matter, what was done was done. Roger was nothing if not determined, and he could gather attention if he wanted to. Freddie could to, but so very rarely did so anymore — the plays and recitals of their childhood, performed with the unselfconscious exuberance and glee that came so freely with youth, had restrained itself within him, at the beckoning of the constraints of adulthood, and settled into quiet acquiescence to play and sing at the pianoforte only when requested — for, as Mother often told them, pride was not becoming of an omega. 

The doorman gave a small cough, the signal that their father had decided upon so that Mother could impart her final wisdom. 

"Back straight, chin up, don't make too much eye contact and don't eat too much," she instructed Freddie, pulling one last time on his sleeves. "Talk only when spoken to, and don't try and be funny." 

Freddie nodded, giving her one last almost-smile. 

Roger startled as Papa smoothed his errant strand of hair behind his ear before brushing a kiss to his cheek, "Soon it will be your turn, Roger. Don't worry." 

At least, Roger thought, he had an acceptable excuse for looking concerned. 

"Mr. John Deacon and Mr. Peter Hince for you, Mr. Taylor," Mrs. Poole announced, moving quickly from the doorway to allow their guests entry. 

Their father moved forward to greet them as Freddie and Roger bobbed quick bows, as was appropriate. 

"Oh." 

Roger's head shot up. 

"It's you," said the alpha from the moors, stood in the doorway and staring at him. 

* 

The introductions had been an awkward affair, all told. Freddie had sidled up close enough to surreptitiously step repeatedly on his toes as if he would be able to explain what was going on within such close quarters. 

Papa had looked remarkably suspicious about their previous acquaintance but had seemingly decided against pressing the matter while their guests stood in the parlour. He also refrained from any questioning as they took light tea, allowing Mother to prattle on about Freddie's list of achievements. Mr. Hince had nodded along politely, interjecting small compliments for their estate and home as he did so. 

Roger made a quick study of the carpeting, Mr. Deacon's gaze weighing heavy on him all the while, as he tried to figure out how he was to turn this to his advantage. 

They had eventually moved to the dining room, where all manner of delicacy greeted them. It appeared to be all rather heavy, which Roger had expected. Mother was fond of emulating the highest of society when she entertained, often going above and beyond what would be expected of her. The kitchen staff often bemoaned her expectations, as were her guests as they struggled through multiple courses of the richest meals you could dream of. 

"I admit to being surprised," their father began, eyes tracking the distance between Mr. Deacon and Roger. "That you have made acquaintance with one of my sons before now, Mr. Deacon. It was my understanding that you had only recently been received at the Nutfield Estate." 

Mr. Deacon, who had been all but silent until now — apparently content to watch Roger from under his eyelashes, uninterested in Freddie who was sat opposite him and in all splendour — coughed quietly, "Yes, only last Monday." 

"You have been into the village recently then, Roger?" Papa asked. 

Mother glared at him. 

"No, Papa," Roger answered, placing his knife and fork onto his plate before he spoke as he had been taught. "I became acquainted with Mr. Deacon on the moors just yesterday." 

The lavender that Lillian had placed in his hair was giving up such a strong scent, Roger was surprised he had been allowed to wear it. Mother had wanted their natural scents to shine through as much as possible — had almost forbidden Freddie from washing before breakfast until their father had insisted that no alpha would find his son desirable if he turned up to dinner smelling as he did. 

Perhaps Roger was adorned in lavender to hide his scent and allow for Freddie's to show better. 

Another obstacle. 

"On the moors?" Mother gasped, her fork falling from her hand and upon her plate with a clatter. 

Even Freddie had turned pale at the confession, a rarity with his naturally tanned skin. 

"Hince was accompanying me, of course," Mr. Deacon said, nodding solemnly at Papa. 

Mr. Hince's gaze darted between Roger and Mr. Deacon quickly before he cleared his throat and nodded, smiling beatifically. "Of course, Mr. Taylor. You'll find Deacon doesn't go about many places without me by his side, even if it does require dragging me from my warm chambers at an ungodly hour of the morning for a brisk walk." 

Father turned his eyes to Roger. He nodded. 

"Well!" Mother exclaimed, falling back into her chair with a sigh. "That's a relief! How good of you, Mr. Deacon, to traverse the countryside with a beta at your side. Goodness knows we've attempted to teach Roger the dangers of his little excursions, but not much sticks with the boy." 

Mr. Deacon hummed, and his eyes turned back to Roger once more. 

At his side, Freddie huffed a little and took a large bite of his roasted potatoes. 

Mother let out a high pitched _ahem_. 

Freddie chewed mulishly. 

"Freddie, on the other hand," Mother continued, her voice climbing in pitch and volume. "Is such a charming boy. So eager to please. Isn't he, Mr. Taylor?" 

Their father laughed, a booming sound that had Roger and Freddie perking up out of sheer habit. Such a laugh had often led to miscellaneous mischief in their younger years. "Yes, yes, that's my Freddie. Precocious when he was younger, as children tend to be, but he's settled quite well in recent years. Always a delight to watch at dances, he is." 

Mr. Hince leaned across closer to Freddie and inquired as to his preferred dance and Freddie blushed prettily under his regard as he always did regardless of designation. 

"And your second son?" Mr. Deacon asked, taking a sip from his wine. 

It was interesting, Roger thought, that for a man with such a quiet demeanor he had no trouble bringing the entire table to a standstill at his question. 

The room appeared to hold its breath. 

"I am not quite so settled, sir," Roger said, meeting his gaze head-on for the first time that night. "And not near as accomplished as my brother when it comes to dancing, though I dare say I enjoy it just as well." 

Mr. Deacon hummed thoughtfully at his answer. 

"Roger is more free-spirited than Freddie, to be sure," Papa tacked on, looking at him fondly. "But then, is the youngest not always so? Roger has never been afraid of anything. He’s never had to be, he's always had Freddie with him to pick up the pieces if something goes wrong." 

Freddie bumped at his shoulder lightly, and Roger let a wry smile touch his lips. If only they knew just how fearful he truly was. 

Roger had never been afraid for himself, it was true. Roger felt no need to fear for himself, for he knew what his future held. He had known what lay before him since the Nutfield Estate had emptied in the aftermath of young Ronald McDonaghue's untimely death some ten years before. The family had had no other heir for the estate to fall to, Mrs. McDonaghue's passing having occurred when Roger himself was still a babe, leaving an omega brother, beta sister, and their omega father homeless. The estate had passed on to a cousin so many times removed who had decided to let it out, the countryside not being to his liking, but not before the omega son — William — had been married off to an alpha woman thirty years his senior. 

Roger had known exactly what lay in his future from the time he was eleven years old and had long grown past being scared of it. No, Roger was scared for Freddie who deserved so much more than to be sold off to the first bidder. Freddie deserved so much more. 

"I like to think myself somewhat capable of picking up my own pieces if truth be told," Roger murmured, as he and Mr. Deacon watched one another carefully. "But having another to support you could never be a negative thing." He fluttered a quick look at Mr. Hince, and by the time he had his gaze upon Mr. Deacon again the man was blushing. 

"We all want to be looked after," Freddie agreed, finding his feet in the conversation as he discarded the rules Mother had set before them before dinner. "I can think of nothing more pleasant than to be cared for." 

"And to care in return," Roger added, picking up his cutlery once more to take a bite of his beef. 

"Well, yes, that too," Freddie said with a laugh, covering his mouth as he did so. 

Papa carefully steered the topic of conversation to safer waters, enquiring as to whether the alphas were planning on attending the Nutfield ball which was being held on the coming Friday. Upon confirmation that they were, Mother had flown into as close a tizzy as she would dare while in the presence of those she hoped may take one of her omega step-children off of her hands. 

"We haven't had a ball since just before Christmas, would you believe?" 

Mr. Hince opined that he indeed could not believe that they had been forced to endure such a long intermission between balls, for he himself was a great lover of dancing and would surely perish if he were made to wait such a long time. 

"We are lucky that our Freddie plays the pianoforte so well," Mother told him, winking at Freddie in a manner that was not at all subtle. Roger didn’t think he’d ever seen her wink before, it entailed a kind of joviality of which he wouldn’t have guessed her capable. "For we may dance whenever we so like." 

"That is fortunate," Mr. Hince said. 

Mr. Deacon remained stubbornly silent on the subject, his focus firmly upon his plate even as he made no move to eat more than he already had. The bacon and suet flummery he was moving around his plate were, fittingly, moulded in the shape of a fish. 

"Yes, perhaps you should like to play us a ditty once your father has spoken to our guests, Freddie?" Mother prodded. 

"Of course," Freddie assented, ducking his head shyly. 

* 

After dinner, the alphas and Mr. Hince had gone into Papa's study for drinks. Beta's generally had a choice whether to remain with the omega-folk or the alphas in such a situation, and Mr. Hince's decision surprised no one. Roger was unsure as to whether Mr. Deacon could function in polite society without his affable beta friend to act as his mouthpiece. 

Freddie and Mother had whirled upon him the second the latch had caught on the study door to demand an explanation for his unannounced previous acquaintance with Mr. Deacon. Mother had appeared to believe his claims of forgetfulness, that their last meeting had been of little consequence and brief in nature, so much so that he hadn't thought to mention it as a matter of import to anyone in the household. After all, he had pointed out, a beta had been in witness to ensure that all proprietary was maintained. 

Freddie had watched him and known that he had not told the whole truth, in the way that only Freddie would ever know the truth of Roger. Freddie had watched him and known that Roger knew that he knew, in that way that only Roger would ever know the truth of Freddie. 

The alphas and Mr. Hince had exited the study not too long later, their cheeks flushed from the spirits they had imbibed behind closed doors if not high spirits from the conversation they had had therewithin. Father looked somewhat perturbed but shook his head when Mother sidled up and asked what was wrong. 

Given the way that Mr. Deacon continued to track him around the room, even as Freddie performed a flawless rendition of a song Roger could never even begin to hope to play half as well, he thought he could guess why. 

Their guests had taken leave eventually, well within the respectable visiting period — even as it felt that they had stayed an age or more — and vowed to see them again at the Nutfield ball. 

"If I may be so bold," Mr. Deacon said, turning at the last moment from where he had been about to walk from the parlour. "Roger, may I solicit your hand for the first dance at the ball?" His words shocked even Mr. Hince, who reached out to Mr. Deacon as if to compel him to retract his question. "And Freddie, the second?" he tacked on as an afterthought. 

"That would be lovely," Freddie answered, though the groove which was now digging its way in between his brow spoke differently. Mr. Deacon nodded his thanks. 

Roger wet his lip, and did not miss the way Mr. Deacon's watched his mouth as he did so: "I will look forward to it." 

Mr. Deacon smiled, and the planes of his face changed. The solemn set of his brow transformed as his eyes crinkled, dimples appearing on his cheeks. "I will see you then." 

It felt like a promise made by a man Roger had not yet met. 

"Yes, we will," Mr. Hince said, clasping Mr. Deacon's upper arm and steering him from the room without allowing him to finish saying his farewells. 

The room settled once more into an oppressive silence in the wake of their departure, and Roger tried to act as if he were unaware. He had done nothing wrong, that they knew of, and while he hadn't planned for this exact outcome -- he could not have, given his ignorance as to the exact identity of their dinner guests until they had been introduced -- he couldn't say that it hadn't worked out for the best or to his advantage. Mr. Deacon had been aware of his unaccompanied walks around the countryside, and the impropriety such a habit implied, but had appeared interested nevertheless, which was a relief. He had been gearing himself up for the sharp let down he would be inflicting had he been able to attract the interest of the previously unknown alpha instead of Freddie. It was better, perhaps, that the alpha had some inkling of just who it was what Roger was — if not the full picture. 

It was true that no amount of disappointment in Roger for any alpha would ever balance out the sheer injustice of the matrimonial contract for any omega entering into a match out of anything but love, but... t'was until death did part. A hope for cordiality was not something to be discarded. 

He would merely have to watch his tongue. 

Freddie had practically dragged him up the stairs and into his bedroom as soon as Papa had dismissed them, quelling Mother's impending questions with a single look. As soon as they were away from prying eyes Freddie had slumped — his perfect posture had disappeared, even the pearls in his hair appeared to feel the drag of gravity. 

Perhaps, Roger thought, Tilly had not been as diligent with her application of hairpins as Lillian had been. Freddie may be able to sleep with his head upon a pillow, in that case. Roger wasn't sure he'd be so lucky. 

"How could you not tell me you met an alpha?" Freddie hissed, pulling their mother's pearls from his hair haphazardly and dropping them into a glass bowl that sat on the vanity. 

Roger shrugged, coming up behind him to help. "I didn't think it best practice to tell everyone that I'd come across an alpha while unaccompanied on the moors." 

Freddie winced as Roger tried to remove a particularly stubborn pin. He gave it one sharp tug and it came free, along with several strands of hair. 

"Yes, well, if he had Mr. Hince with him--" he paused, squinting at Roger's reflection in the mirror. Roger looked back impassively. "He didn't have Mr. Hince with him," he said flatly. 

"No," Roger agreed easily. "He did not." 

"Roger!" Freddie squawked, turning and slapping him on the chest once, twice, thrice. "Anything could have happened! This is why you're not meant to go alone, you could have been ruined!" 

Roger hummed. "Well, I wasn't. He was quite proper about the whole thing actually." 

Roger had certainly imagined worse possibilities for a future spouse. 

"No he wasn't," said Freddie, leaning back to balance against the vanity. "If he were proper about it he would have immediately come to Papa and petitioned for your hand in marriage." 

Roger rolled his eyes. 

"He would have!" Freddie insisted. "That would be the proper thing to do! Not to go and.... and lie to Papa about what happened!" 

"Yes, well," Roger sniffed, turning away to sit on the bed. "Nothing happened and it's much too late to change our stories now." 

Freddie huffed, shaking his head. 

Roger let himself fall back on the bedspread. This ceiling was the one he had grown up looking up at as sleep had eluded him; he and Freddie had stayed together until Freddie's first heat, and he could still remember his confusion at being forced out of his childhood bedroom and into guest quarters as Mrs. Poole had hustled in and out, telling him that _no, you can't see Freddie just now, duckling._

"Mr. Hince was nice," Freddie said thoughtfully, if somewhat muffled. Fabric rustled about, Roger assumed he was getting dressed for bed. Usually Tilly would be in and out, helping him with his jacket and trousers, but the servants were enjoying the spoils of the dinner that had — by and large, as usual — gone to waste on the mortal appetites of the family and their guests. It was bad enough that Anna and Tom would still be expected at Mother and Papa’s side, Roger and Freddie had told TIlly and Lillian that they wouldn't be needed for the rest of the night before they'd gone down to dinner. 

Lillian, bless her, had looked fit to faint. 

"But not Mr. Deacon?" Roger prompted, counting anew the ripples which adorned the ceiling. Mother had been nagging at their father to have the bedroom redecorated, but Roger knew he'd mourn the loss of another memory if she ever succeeded. 

"I didn't say that," Freddie said, collapsing beside him on the bed and greeting him with a cheerful grin. It faded quickly as he shuffled about on his back until they were shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the same ceiling. "But he seemed a bit... cold. Perhaps he was shy." 

Roger didn't say anything. 

"You seemed to like him, though," Freddie continued. "I thought Mother's head was going to explode when you answered his question to Papa, I really did." 

Roger hummed, looking over at Freddie to find his brother watching him intently. Freddie wrinkled his nose. 

"All of that lavender gave me a headache at dinner," he told him, reaching to pluck a sprig from his hair. "It was nigh all I could smell — my wine tasted of it!" 

"Lillian went a little bit overboard," Roger ceded. "I thought it was a little strong myself." 

Freddie was twirling the lavender between his thumb and forefinger, squinting up at it as if it held all the secrets of the universe. Roger watched him as if he were the centre of his own; in the dip of Freddie’s collarbone all the tears he’d ever spilled over skinned knees pooled, the flutter of his eyelashes whispered promises of tomorrow to the tune of a lullaby their mother had never had the time to share with him, and on the bow of his lips sat the spark of every wish he’d ever dared to let take root inside his chest. 

“I think I could be happy with him,” Freddie said, nodding to himself as he kept his eyes on the flower held in the same hand that had helped Roger take his first steps. “I could love him.” 

And Roger did not say _you could love anyone but you should not have to_ or _your happiness is not something I will leave to the whims of God_ or _you are the warmest soul I have ever touched, I could not bear to see you reduced to embers for anything or anyone_. 

“I could love him,” Freddie repeated softly, the ghost of a smile touching his lips as he worked to convince himself of the necessary lie he was weaving himself. 

Roger reached blindly for the pillow that sat above his head and, finding it, whacked Freddie over the head with it. 

"Roger!" 

They’d wrestled one another until the lavender from Roger’s hair lay crushed amongst the linens of Freddie’s sheets, and the both of them were breathless with laughter. Papa had come to separate them eventually, the sounds of the two of them tumbling over one another summoning him from his own bedroom to scold them and send Roger from Freddie’s bedchamber. 

“Goodnight, Freddie,” Papa said, closing the door with a click before turning to face Roger. “Not even ready for bed, and at this hour!” 

“Sorry, Papa.” 

His father gazed at him steadily, and Roger could only imagine the state he had managed to turn himself into. Quite apart from the veneer of respectability Lillian had pinned and prodded him into, he was sure. Under the regard of his Papa's eyes, eyes that he himself had inherited against the odds, he felt all of a sudden a little boy again — all scraped knees and wishes that sounded like lullabies he’d never heard sung quite right — hoping that his father couldn’t see the fieldmouse he’d caught in the garden trying to escape from his pocket. 

“Papa?” 

A beat, and a sigh. 

“Goodnight, Roger,” Papa said softly, his hand coming close as if to cup his cheek before his finger curled away. “Goodnight,” he said as he turned back towards his bedroom, leaving Roger in the dim light of the hallway with the sickly sweet perfume of lilies cloying at the back of his throat. 

“Goodnight,” Roger whispered at his father’s back and rather felt as if he wasn’t saying _goodnight_ at all. 

The moon shone brightly in the sky, keeping him awake with his thoughts long past the hour he wished to have slipped into unconsciousness. When he woke in the morning, it was with a sprig of lavender held to his nose in the delicate cradle of his hands. 

*

**Author's Note:**

> this will be continued -- give me validation, you bastards xxx 
> 
> (@sarinataylor on ye olde tumblr)


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